


no grave can hold my body down

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Tragedy, blame Hozier, love too late, post 2x11, season 2B ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-03
Updated: 2015-02-03
Packaged: 2018-03-10 09:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3284561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the victory at Mount Weather, only death can tear Clarke and Bellamy apart, and maybe not even then. Or, where a single line from Work Song by Hozier sparked an entire tragic one-shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	no grave can hold my body down

**Author's Note:**

> February 3, 2015: 
> 
> 9:00 am - I finally listened to Work Song by Hozier for the first time (yes I'm a grandma and am not hip with the times).  
> 11: 30 am - I felt the urge to write something angsty.  
> 2:30 pm - This tragic thing had somehow appeared on my screen.

* * *

_When my time comes around_

_Lay me gently in the cold dark earth_

**_No grave can hold my body down_ **

_I’ll crawl home to her_

 

You run into the Grounder camp, skidding to a halt after passing through the gate, panting heavy breaths. It’s unbelievable that you are back here, after being drained of your blood and then locked in a cage, after fighting your way out and leading the 47 through the dangerous tunnels under the mountain. You remember explosions and falling rock and thinking you’ll die underground, regretting for a slight moment that your end will not be out in the open air that you and your people have sacrificed so much to experience. But you make it out, and then you are back here.

As you look around the yard, you realize that you are practically invisible in the pandemonium of people frantically calling out, searching for loved ones. You understand their panic and do the same. You see Octavia across the way, too busy helping a battered Lincoln into the medbay to acknowledge you, but you sigh in relief anyways. The 47 are mostly already inside. You’ve seen familiar faces, but no one you call friend. And that’s when you realize Clarke is missing, and everything slows, everything quiets, because you can’t find her.

You whip around, looking among the chaos in the Grounder camp for the familiar flash of blonde hair tumbling over blue fabric. She isn’t anywhere. When you see Abby pacing outside the overflow from medical, you rush over because there is no one else who would know better.

So when you ask her where Clarke is, you expect her to have all the answers. Instead, she just stares at you with dead, tired eyes, as if she can see right through you. Your heart stutters, because the devastation is etched in every line in her face.

You feel a desperate urge to argue with her, to make her tell you that her grief doesn’t mean what you think it does, but you don’t get a chance. Raven’s voice comes wavering from behind you. You hadn’t even heard her approach, but you quickly step back from between the women to let her speak.

When she says Clarke is still at the cave-in, and they can’t move her from the rubble, and _will you—can you come help_ in a thick, desperate, grieving voice, you take off without a word. Something unknown calls to you through this land of trees and terror, resounding in your chest to match the frantic beating of your heart. It turns your strong steps into long frantic strides. You don’t (can’t) wait for the two women to follow. All that matters is Clarke and getting to her in time.

The absence of your rifle banging against your back is strange, and there are still plenty of Mountain Men around for gun possession to be necessary, but you don’t care that you are unarmed. With that unknown thing driving you, you feel you can outrun anyone, just to get to her. You just have to get there, be with her, because there is nothing the two of you can’t do when together, and that includes cheating death. _We can get her out time. She may just be unconscious. We can revive her and she’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. She is alive. She’ll be okay. She is alive. She’ll be okay._

Pacing your slamming feet and hammering heart to that denying mantra, you speed through the rough terrain, barely registering the green and brown blur of the forest around you. All you can hear is the crackle of leaves under your boots, the creaking of branches swaying in the wind above you, and your heaving pants as you suck sharp cold air in and out.

 _Breathe, Bellamy_ , her voice whispers dryly, a ghost of a memory from back at the dropship when she once had tried to calm your raging fire. _You can’t lead them if you don’t take the time to breathe._ Now, your chest burns again, with the exertion and the worry and the barely-held-at-bay grief, stirring up that fire. As you run, it builds and builds until it explodes across your torso and down your limbs, sending raging sparks across your skin. Your throat closes up with the heat and you choke, legs moving too fast for your lungs. _Breathe, Bellamy._ You gasp, letting the cool air slide down your throat, into your lungs and outward, driving the fire from your veins. It retreats, slithering within you to gather in your right hand, which quickly grows numb from the unbearable heat.

Soon you begin to pass limping figures supporting one another and others toting stretchers, all stumbling tiredly over the rocks and fallen logs. You don’t give the injured a second look; they already have help and Clarke is the one who needs yours. She needs you, so you run without acknowledging a soul. The thing that finally stops you is the wall of people, Arkers and delinquents alike, clustered around a blown-apart entrance to the tunnels of that hellish mountain. Before you can shove them aside, a quiet, keening sob rips through the heavy silence. The coolness still resting in your veins freezes at the pained call, your hand still burning, because you’d know her voice anywhere, in any form, in any life.

_Clarke. She’s alive._

The crowd shifts, leaving barely enough room for you to squeeze through. When you reach the front, you choke in relief as you fix on the kneeling figure in front of you. She is there, back to you and hunched over, familiar but worse-for-the-wear blue jacket pulled tight across her torso, head bowed so her blonde hair falls in disheveled strands over her shoulders. She shakes, rocking back and forth at the base of a pile of mountain tunnel rubble.

You call her name, but she doesn’t move, just lets out another agonizing sob.

You hurry over, murmuring her name over and over, trying to get her to look at you. _Just look at me, princess, look at me and it will all be okay_.

You kneel beside her, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. With no acknowledgement of your touch, she instead lowers her head even further, letting out a wet hiccup and a desperate whisper: _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_. Then she leans down and presses her lips to the hand sticking out from the rubble and clutched between her own two small ones. 

You stare at the hand, trying to place it with a face. Blood cakes the broken fingers, with open slashes and torn-up callouses covering the swollen palm. It is too dark to be Jasper’s and too large to be Monty’s, too thick to be Miller’s and too worked to be Kane’s. The scar at the base of the thumb looks familiar, and you unconsciously curl your fingers inward to brush them against that same place on your own hand. As the pads of your fingers sweep over an identical thin raised line of flesh, you suck in a harsh breath. Then you laugh, long and bitter, because of course it would end like this.

Somehow, that is what she finally notices you. Clarke looks up, blue eyes wide with horror and anguish, mouth parted and a cry hovering on her cracked lips. That is when she sees you, and for a second, you think that maybe it’s enough to keep you, enough to make you stay, as long as she can see you. She squeezes your hand in the rubble, and heat flares in the one at your side. She was the unknown thing calling you here, just with her touch. You can’t feel her skin or the crushing grip of her fingers, but you do feel the heat of her. So maybe you can make it like this; maybe this ethereal connection will be enough.

Her eyes fill up with tears, and she chokes out your name. That’s when it all falls apart, when your fragile hope fails, because she’s calling your name into the chilly air, breath visible, and the crowd shifts uneasily because she’s done this before, seen ghosts. It almost broke her last time, and your heart wrenches at the thought of doing that to her again. Even though you’re not ready to go, because _your sister, your responsibility_ and _I can’t lose you too okay_ , you love Clarke too much to be selfish enough to stay.

So, you press a kiss to her forehead for a long moment, feeling her collapse like a dying star underneath the soft pressure. That kiss tells her everything you never had the chance to, and it still somehow doesn’t even come close to being everything you need to say to her. You’ve run out of time, though, so it’s all the two of you have. It is not enough, but like everything on the ground, you only get what it gives you.

Then you stand and turn, walking away without a second look back, because you know too well the suffocating feeling of ghosts haunting you, and you cannot bear to add to her weight. The last thing you hear is her voice, pained and sorrowful but just the smallest bit thankful, as she wishes you farewell. _Yu gonplei ste odon. May we meet again._

You disappear into the forest, and then the only trace of you remaining on the ground is your name whispered with heartbreaking, too-late love on her lips.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know what to say other than I guess my brain is preparing for the rest of season and all its angst. Something also just called to me about the poetry of ghost!Bellamy gravitating towards Clarke and then letting her go because he loves her that much.


End file.
